Jeeves and the Chorusboys
by LucylouKazoo
Summary: Bertie Wooster, Reginald Jeeves, and a flock of the ponciest chorusboys you'd ever like to meet! And Bertie's got himself into quite a mess this time... Wodehouse Slash.


JEEVES AND THE CHORUS BOYS

By Lucylou

_**Intro**: Another J/W thingy! Please enjoy. Much love to the homies at I.S._

CHAPTER ONE

The whole business was entirely rum, if I may say so.

The Drones club was positively over-run! I wasn't quite sure of the facts, but according to old Bingo, (close chums with the president of the club) an extended membership had been offered (free of charge!) to the entire cast of "Run, Run, Roger," the hit musical theater to-do that was getting quite a lot of london press of late.

I'm not too terribly up on my goings-on around town- Jeeves would know, surely- but I'm informed that the plot concerns a boyo and his pals, and follows their extravagant exploits, whiling away their young lives in their gentleman's club.

Apparently, the continued presence of the entirely male and increasingly famous cast would be good business, and bring in some new members for the old home-away from home, so they were offered the aforementioned free membership.

Bingo seemed genial about the whole mess, claiming that the rabble was full of quite topping young lads, but I wasn't so sure. I hadn't been in to the Drones much lately, but during my brief glimpses of the group, the whole lot of them seemed to have that vacant-eyed, cravat-fancying look that brought to mind the whole mess with Cyril Bassington Bassington. That business, in turn, brought back the shuddering memory of my own disastrous foray onto the gilded stage of musical theater. The distant humming of the title song to "Ask Dad" was still imbedded in the mind, and any mention of musical theater brought a wince to the Wooster countenance.

I'd been chased from the homestead by a disgruntled Jeeves on a fine London evening. He'd never so much as breathe a word to warn off the young master, of course, but then, one doesn't live and breathe with a chap for as long as Jeeves and I have not to be able to discern the subtle urgings towards the door on the part of one's co-habitating domestic staff.

He'd been encouraging me towards a trip to his approved thread shop, to pick up a few new feathers to garb the wooster bird, but I'd been glibly ignoring him. Quite frankly, I'd been less than thrilled at the prospect of shopping with Jeeves again. The last time had me trussed and buttoned with immaculate taste, agreeing to every suggestion down to the last glove, and dazedly wandering home with my new Jeeves-approved wardrobe without the faintest idea as to why I'd allowed my personal valet to so appropriate my fashion sense.

Months later, the reasoning had somewhat dawned on me, and that had given me the shakes at the thought of another session at the feathery. Quite frankly, to think on the lengths I'd go to for the approval of my gentleman's personal gentleman, I was afraid I'd buy out the entire shop! I was trying avoid those sorts of telling incidents, lest I give too much away.

But I'm all awry here in my telling; where was I? Oh yes.

Jeeves had been giving me the frosty eyebrow for a few hours, after he'd caught on to my ingenious wandering memory over the promise to go clothing shopping. The subsequently shaming glances from neath those expressive eyelids had driven me from the house, where I banished myself to the somewhat neglected Drones zinc-top.

I downed a glass of the old life's blood, and then glanced 'round the haven for a friendly face. Following the sound of raucous laughter from the Tusker's den (which is named for the large and rather rum-looking boar's head that overhangs the entrance) I guilelessly toted my glass into the very heart of the "Run-Run-Roger" post-matinee bacchanalia.

The room was mainly full of the "Run, Run, Roger," chorusboys, jostling congenially and doing something frightening and explosive to glasses of silly looking liquor. I watched as a young, blonde chap (with his eyebrows drawn on) lit a match and held it to a spoon atop the glass. The spoon ignited, and dripped some sort of sugary ooze into the glass beneath. All very interesting, but not strumming any interested strings on this Wooster's palate. From the looks of things, this was a very silly drink indeed.

I was just about to turn tail and investigate things back at the flat, when I heard Bingo Little call me over to where he sat among a few of the more inebriated chorusboys.

Bingo beckoned me over enthusiastically to where he was seated on a small velvet settee, which if you ask me, is rather garish for a gentlemen's club. A smallish gent with a rather dapper blue vest (that Jeeves would never have approved of) was perched happily upon Bingo's knee.

I felt a moment of vertigo when I realized that a good many of the other young men around the room were economizing on seat-space, as well. Some seemed to be getting quite chummy, indeed. I sat gingerly next to my boyhood pal, and there was a general clearing of the throat.

"Bingo," I began, "Don't think I'm criticizing, old boy, but there seems to be quite a lot of..." I trailed off, at a loss for words.

"Bertie! This is Jonas! Isn't he a frightful scamp? Plays ninth chorusman from the left, don't you know?" He jostled young Jonas upon his knee as one would a tot, and beamed at the towheaded young man.

I was well acquainted with Bingo's occasional affection for the male of the species, but not since sixth form had I been so utterly surrounded by such a blatant display of the kind of thing usually considered hush amongst polite company.

I suppose the situation is enough to tax even the strongest of dispositions, when one isn't two feet in front of a pair of beautiful young lads engaged in a fierce duel of the mouth-on-mouth variety. I tried to ignore the amorous chorusboys on the adjoining seat, and addressed Bingo's new acquaintance.

"What ho, there, young Jonas. Erm, that is to say... How did you come to the stage?"

The conversation continued like mud uphill, though loosened when I began to partake of the delicious little green stuff they'd all been drinking.

"Marvelous business, this Absnith!" I crowed, examining the bottle to avoid gawking at the way Bingo had applied his mouth to Jonas' gratified neck.

"It is, isn't it?" said a drawling voice, very near to my right.

I turned, startled, to gawk in utter shock at the young chorusboy that had seated himself beside me.

His hair had been shellacked until it gleamed black with some sort of shoe-polish-stuff, which I could tell by the faint smudges along his forehead. His lips, upon a second look, revealed a hint of rouging paint, which had lent him the initial shocking resemblance to certain pair of naturally dark lips. But his eyes, dark and lidded (likely from drink rather than the sort of big-brained speculation I knew well), lacked any of the cosmetic sort of fripperies necessary to make them strikingly similar to those belonging solely to one Reginald Jeeves.

Despite the obvious lack of that certain... thingummy... the resemblance was a shock to the Wooster bean.

The young man who so knocked off my valet in general appearance seemed amused by my gaping expression, and quite ruined the effect of his physical similarities by grinning in a rather lecherous way that would have had Jeeves giving his most disdainful cough.

"I'm Jeffery Stanhope-Seltzer, third chorusman from the left," he said, extending his left hand downward to be kissed. After a moment to recompose the old mug, I shook it awkwardly, and made another try to rally the Wooster congeniality.

"Well well, young Stanhope-Seltzer... Bertie Wooster. A pleasure, a pleasure. Er... do you happen to know, erm, the... origin of the boar's head room?" I was flailing for a topic through the haze of green liquor, but my audience seemed attentive enough.

He leaned in towards me, stirring his sugared drink, and cocked his head slightly. The effect put me in mind of Jeeves when he is considering one of my more intricate cock-ups, and I felt a horrified stir of interest in the general below-belt region.

I was well aware that this had a great deal to do with that dratted green potion, but well, when one's fondest wish is somewhat unattainable, one tends not to scoff in the face of even a poor imitation. What I mean to say, here, though I imagine I'm doing a very poor job at getting my point across, is that while I don't take a particular interest in the subversive goings-on in the Boar room, I wouldn't be adverse to a similar course of action with my valet. For some time, as it turns out.

It had been going on for what felt like ages, and I was frankly disturbed that Jeeves hadn't yet caught on to the notion that I might be... what's the word? In swain? In armor? Enamored! Yes! That will do nicely. I mean, one does try to keep certain secrets from one's valet, but this was the first time that he hadn't deduced the exact nature of my secretive idlings in less than a trice. I kept a jittery vigil for the day that a breath of air scented with my romantic notions would creep past my man, and he'd be on to me.

Naturally, I kept these sort of things to myself. One can't go around London talking about how they quite fancied their valet, and come to it, for years. Besides the subsequent rise in jibes on the part of my fellow drones about my (already bruised) reputation as somewhat of a pushover when it comes to Jeeves and his demands over me, there are larger issues to consider.

My brushes with the law, though infrequent, haven't given me much of a taste for the chokey, and I'd just as soon keep my cozy flat in it's fine company, than a lonely, Jeeves-less prison cell.

This Stanhope-Seltzer situation was completely rum, though. The typical chorusboy tended towards something more similar to yours truly, with the golden curls and bluish eyes, that sort of thing. They provoked not a flutter in the Wooster heart. I'd never understood Bingo's interest in their species.

Of course, my own tastes tend towards the tall, handsome, dark and elegant types, or rather, one specimen in particular. And here was a sleek young otter of a chorusboy, tall of height and long of limb, dark and smirking in all the appropriate places, positively oozing with interest of a decidedly improper nature. Despite my frustration with the obvious deficiencies, I'll admit that he was alike to Jeeves enough to provoke a flutter not beneath the breastbone, but rather lower down than the heart area.

At some point, someone (likely the aforementioned S.S.) had refilled my glass with the aniseed bile, and I had the distinct impression, through a greenish fog, that there were fingers tangling themselves in the back of my hair.

"What a delightful conversationalist you are, Mr. Wooster," Said young S.S. with a flirtatious purse of those Jeeveslike lips.

I flushed at the compliment on my joke about the dog-walking diplomat, until I realized that the fingers in my hair were his, and he had gotten much too near. His breath smelled of the sticky liquor, and I suddenly missed Jeeves more than I'd ever done before, even when he'd gone off on his shrimping holiday last summer. All thoughts of potentially exercising my secret passion for Jeeves on this eager young pup were swept away with a tide of momentary sobriety, and I attempted to right the situation.

"Now just a tic, Billy-o!" I sputtered, losing my aplomb entirely. "It's all a bit close in here, don't you think?" I inched towards Bingo and his young fellow, reluctant to jostle them, but eager to flee. Someone must have turned my legs to rubber, because for the life of me, I couldn't seem to stand up.

In the slight scuffle, as Stanhope-Seltzer leaned in towards my neck like some sort of Noseferret... er... nosferton? Ah, Nosferatu (Jeeves has suggested I cease attending picture shows that give me nightmares, but then I'd be forced to surrender his tending to me with a glass of milk and a midnight chat.) Anyhow, I upset my drink all over the lap of my favorite harris trousers (Jeeves favors them on me as well, which might have a jolly great deal to do with why they're my favorites).

"Oh dear," said the S.S. insincerely. I was drunkenly mourning my favorite trousers in mute horror. He took a cocktail napkin from the table and began to swipe at me ineffectually. Too unhappy to stop him, I realized belatedly that by mopping at my lap, he had noticed my waning "interest" from earlier. He cocked an eyebrow at me with a sure look to his eyes, and said, "Perhaps we should get you out of these trousers, Mr. Wooster." Before I could shriek a terrified protest at his ham-handed proposition, he struck like the devious snake he is and covered my mouth with his.

Now, I consider myself to be something of an expert of the cinema. I attend picture shows weekly, and can spot the actors by name, or at least I can ask Jeeves to remind me. I know all about how these sorts of things go:

It begins with the innocent and virginal young heroine, happily going about her day. She is slated for a trip down the alter with the handsome swain of her heart's desire, but something goes awry, and she winds up on a settee somewhere with a black-hearted cod, who's just after her for some ready dosh. Just as soon as said B.H.C. has managed to coerce an un-reciprocated kiss from the young lady in question, her fiancee barges in to witness all, jumping to the wrong conclusion and sending both parties into fits of woe, remorse, anger, and eventually, either a happy reunion between the pair, or a three-part murder/suicide sort of thing.

The latter usually requires Jeeves to sweep me into the nearest ice cream parlour in order to recover my spirits.

It's remarkable how the cinema can so perfectly mirror how things generally go in life. I'd rather hoped that this wouldn't be the time for my day to begin to resemble the threepenny movie shows. Here was I, shocked motionless by the sudden attack on my person, when naturally, and with a dull panic heaping further upon my horror, I spotted Jeeves, the real article, over the shoulder of my attacker, frozen in mid knock against the doorframe.

After a moment of terrified goggling, I thrust the blighter's fingers from where they were pawing at me, and managed to extract myself from the one-sided embrace. Legs un-rubbered, I sprang from the settee and, finding my exits blocked by lanky thighs, launched myself towards my valet with a clumsy vault over the low table. Naturally, I wound up tangling my feet in the carpet, and, my arms windmilling frantically, planting myself face-first into the Drones club hardwood at the feet of my beloved. All in all not quite the stuff of cinema romances.

I recall an attempt to look up into the face of the man who surely, after all this, would desert me to my well-deserved fate of miserable solitude and eventual consumption by rabid aunts. Unfortunately, I found that I was distracted by the tiny spots of blood across the otherwise immaculate surface of Jeeves' polished black wingtips. Inanely, I wondered who's blood it could possibly be, until I sensed the unmistakable coppery taste on my upper lip that indicated one of my nosebleeds. It probably had to do with the impact my generous nasal appendage had made with the floor only a moment ago. I imagined it would hurt like a bally gem once I sobered up a bit, but it wasn't important at the moment.

I managed to drag my pathetic gaze up to the face of my valet, who had shifted his eyes to me in my current state of woe. His face melted from horrified shock (one can only tell when one knows him as well as I) to the kind of look you might give a pampered pomeranian who has managed to fling himself into an alligator pond in pursuit of the much larger animal. To my utter relief and joy, he bent down to grasp me silently by the upper arm and hoist me vertical. Unfortunately, in my current state of bloodied drunkenness, this sudden movement made my vision swim, and the last thing I recall, before everything went dark, was the smug voice of young Stanhope-Seltzer as I fell into Jeeves' capable arms.

"Ah, I see the lay of things, so to speak. Got there first, did you? Quite a prize, your Mr. Wooster." And I was swept into oblivion by the sound of his mocking laughter.

CHAPTER TWO

I awoke with the oddest sense of total peace. I found it strange not to be worried over the potentially dooming situation I now found myself in. I surmised (correctly, as it turns out) that Jeeves had given me one of those leftover pills the doctor prescribed once for when I had been clouted on the head by a rampaging patriarch to some slighted damsel or another. I couldn't recall exactly who, as the space around my head seemed decidedly fuzzy.

Those little pills did wonders, though, as I didn't feel in the least bit peaky, even in regards to that dratted green-tinted business. I perched an eyelid open and surveyed the familiar view from my bed. Jeeves was not to be found, and I felt a faint niggling of panic as the pill began to wear off.

I had managed to retain a complete recollection of the previous evening, much to this Wooster's dismay, and I didn't fancy the day ahead. If I was forced to get down on my knees to prevent Jeeves from leaving my employ, then so be it, but I'd rather avoid doing that when so indisposed and dizzy. I'd be liable to take another fall and wind up bleeding at his feet again.

I sat up with a bleary smack of the lips, and took a moment to silently ask the world at large what I was to do about this business with Jeeves and that horrid S.S. My behavior had been unforgivable. I tried to imagine what it must have seemed like to Jeeves, coming upon my person being fondled and kissed by a vulgar chorusboy with a painted face... It was all too much to bear.

At that moment, Jeeves shimmered into view bearing a tea tray. I bucked up immediately at the sight of him, as always, but was plunged back under a wave of despair as I noticed a decidedly rummy look to his face. He glanced up at my wide, worried stare, and gave a sigh like the barest hinted breath of disapproval.

Before I could crumble entirely, he straightened from the tray and tilted the bean in my direction.

"Are you feeling quite well this morning, Sir? Your nose seems to have suffered a slight bruising in the night. Would you allow me to fetch a cold compress?"

"What's that, Jeeves?" I turned to locate my tall dressing mirror in the corner of my room, and gaped at the unfortunate chap in the reflection. Well, I had always rather wondered how I'd wind up if I'd actually taken to boxing back at Eton.

(At the time, I'd taken one look at the sport, and pronounced that never was this Wooster to enter the ring, despite how the fellows taunted me.)

I groaned, flopping back against my pillows in abject humiliation. Jeeves had managed to slip out in less than a moment, only to reappear bearing a cold cloth and bowl.

"If you would, please, Sir," he said, and indicated that I should attempt to sit up properly against the headboard.

I struggled to do so, avoiding his eloquent eyes and clamping tight on the laryngal thingummy in order to avoid making a sound. If Jeeves wanted to coddle and forgive me for my atrocious behavior, then who was I to make a fuss?

At the first press of the cold cloth to my swollen nose, I couldn't hold in a low moan of relief as my eyes slipped shut. I was well aware that I was perfectly capable of holding the compress to my own face, but despite whatever one might say about my wits, I am not entirely stupid.

"Jeeves," I began, with my eyes still shut. In my current state, it came out more like, "Jeebs," but I comforted myself with the hope that he'd overlook my mispronounciation out of abject pity.

"Jeebs, blease forgib me."

Drat.

"I'm sorry sir. What did you say?" Said Jeeves, but I could tell by his tone of voice that he knew perfectly well and was just delighting in torturing me.

"I'b sorry, Jeebs," I winced, forging on. "I can't imbagine what all dat must have looked like to you, but I assure you dat de sidguation was endirely oud of mby gontrol."

I opened my eyes, finally, to stare at him with my most mournfully apologetic look, which, I must say, looks quite sorry indeed.

By the slight quirk of his mouth, I could tell he was doing his best to hold back his amusement, and I felt a sudden surge of inappropriate indignation.

The amusement vanished in a flash, though, and his face sobered to become carefully shuttered.

"Not at all, Sir. It is not my position to cast judgement over the goings on at your gentlemen's club. I was merely concerned over your unfortunate accident. Does this assist in the pain, Sir?"

(My nose throbbed beneath the cool cloth, but the aching shuffled off a bit under Jeeves' tender care.)

"Well, yes, Jeebs, thank you, but whad do you mean by saying it's not your business? I should jolly well hope that's not your opinion of the usual Drone's club activities!"

"Not at all, Sir. I'd just yesterday been informed by a Junior Ganymede associate that the cast of "Run, Run, Roger," had taken up semi-permanent residency at the Drones Club."

I was surprised that Jeeves hadn't known of this before yesterday. I felt slow in the mind. It could have been the pills, but I imagine Jeeves' delicate ministrations to my aching face had much to do with it. If I were a cat, I'd be purring like mad.

"Furthermore," he continued, "I'd been told that many of the young men in the chorus were somewhat disreputable in regards to their preying upon young persons of the well-to-do persuasion. I subsequently attempted to warn you of their intent, but I imagine I came too late to do so."

Ah, well. That would explain his sudden appearance at the Drones.

There was a brief silence as Jeeves removed the cloth to fold it over and re-wet it. I took the opportunity to hang my head into my hands.

"Whad a ruddy dunce I must have looged like..." I moaned.

Jeeves gave a very quiet cough and tilted my face back up towards him with the tips of his fingers. He didn't meet my eyes, but simply pressed the cloth again to my upturned face.

"I'll admit, Sir," he said, quietly, "it was, indeed, an image that has since remained much in my mind."

I was groping vainly for my next words, when I was surprised to see a slight blush rise on my valet's smooth cheek. I happened to notice it because I'd been gazing at it fondly for some time, as I occasionally happen to do, and was shocked by the appearance of a pale rose.

"If you wouldn't mind my inquiry, Sir..." said Jeeves, dabbing at my upper lip with the rapidly warming cloth. "While you tend to be quite genial and open with all manner of creatures, you're not often partial to engaging in lengthy conversations with unfamiliar members of male choruses."

He paused again, which was beginning to give me the downright jitters.

"Was there anything, in particular," he continuted, "that gave you cause to speak with Mr. Stanhope-Seltzer?"

Now, here was a flustered Wooster, but never let it be said that I am not a chap who doesn't know when to dissemble.

"Well, Jeeves, the blighter chose to attach himself to your's truly. I suppose I didn't realize the extent of said attachment until it was too late. Probably had much to do with that awful green stuff, what?"

I was pleased to note that, under Jeeves' care, the voice had once more been restored free of sniveling and stutter. Though the tremor to my little speech couldn't be helped, I suppose.

"Indeed, Sir," he said, in that maddening, eyebrow-lifted way he has when he can tell I'm not being completely frank about things.

"I'm afraid I'm a bit goggled, Jeeves," I said, wiping the (somewhat feverish) brow with the sleeve of my pajama top. "It's not everyday that one's person is set upon by slavering chorusboys, what?" I was attempting to change his line of reasoning before he stumbled upon the real truth behind my brief interest in the aforementioned SS.

"No, Sir," he said,

"I mean," I continued, "One does like to make some attempt at geniality, but when one goes about finding someone to kiss, one doesn't often make for the back curtain!"

"Was that your attempt, Sir?" Jeeves said, solemnly, folding and replacing the cloth in the bowl.

"What?" I yelped, caught off guard.

"Was it your attempt, if you'll pardon me, Sir, to be kissed?"

"Well, what I meant, is, if one wants to be kissed, it's certainly not at the hands, or lips rather, of some barker of a chorusboy."

"Then by whom?"

I froze as quickly as if I'd been pitched headlong into the Alaskan frontier.

Jeeves was looking at me quite seriously, and I could do little more than do a passable imitation of a terrified rodent faced with an oncoming motorcar.

"Who's kiss do you desire, Sir?" His voice was softer now.

Jeeves was quite close, now, and the smell of him (clean and slightly spicy) was overpowering my ability to come up with a response to this query of queries. Did I want to be kissed? Certainly! I had, for some time, thought of little else to pass the time. By someone in particular? Why yes, as a matter of fact, though I could hardly confess this ardent desire to the subject of such thoughts.

It hardly seemed to matter, though, because at present, Jeeves' hand, splayed on the bedclothes, was moving stealthily towards my own. When his smallest finger finally glanced against my thumb (so slight a touch it could have been thought accidental), I knew I'd be entirely unable to restrain myself from confessing all.

So I drew a shuddering breath, met his eye, and did so.

"...Your's. It's your's."

His eyes closed for a moment, as if savoring a delicious brandy. His breath fell in smallish pants against my face, and I breathed in the scent of him.

"I'm very glad you said that, Sir," he said, in as tremulous a voice as I'd ever heard from my steadfast valet. His hand moved to cover mine completely.

"If it pleases, Sir, I'd be extremely gratified to see that you receive your kiss,"

I could do nothing but sit dumbly full of terrified happiness, as Jeeves lowered his eyes, parted his own beautiful lips, and tilted forward to press them against my own.

CHAPTER THREE

"That's what Roger always says, a jolly way to spend the daaaayyyyy! In the good old boys club, Tournarayyy!"

The final musical number of the first act to "Run, Run, Roger" came to an exhuberant close, and I grinned at my man.

"Awful nice for the Drones to pitch in for tickets to take in this debacle, eh Jeeves?"

"Quite, Sir, though I doubt either of us are profiting a great deal from our box seats, as the stage is not visible from our present location."

"Ah, true, Jeeves, true. Not as if I could have suffered through another dreadful chorus of 'At the Tournaray.' Jolly good of you to sniff out this secluded locale."

"A sad fate, indeed, Sir, that you should have to miss the 'show stopping first act finalé.' I'm told it involves roller-skates."

"Ugh. But tosh, Jeeves! I wasn't the one who wanted to leave the comfort of the bedroom! You had to 'stake your claim,' so to speak. I seem to recall you near-dragging me from the flat!"

"Ahem. I believe my claim has been suitably staked. If you would be agreeable, Sir, I suggest we return from whence we came."

"Right, ho, Jeeves! I hadn't intended on spending a marvelous evening embracing my paramour in a prop closet, but there you are. Life certainly has it's surprises, what?"

"It does, Sir," said Jeeves, with that glint in his eye that I've come to know so well over the past few weeks. He leaned in to adjust my tie back to a respectably un-ruffled posish, and suddenly the return to whence we came (the bedroom) was seeming like quite a good idea, indeed.

"Well then, let's hurry home, shall we?"

"Indeed, Sir. But first, I believe this is the prop closet located closest to Mr. Stanhope-Seltzer's dressing room. If we time this just right, he should be passing by this corridor in only a few moments."

"I couldn't be bothered! I haven't the slightest wish to see that ruffian ever again!"

"Yes, Sir, but it would be of great satisfaction to me for him to see _us_."

"Ah! The claim-staking and whatnot?"

"Precisely, Sir."

"Well, there's no chance of my being stolen away from you Jeeves. You need not worry. I'm yours, and yours I shall stay, 'till mortal coils shuffle off and whatsit."

"I'm extremely gratified to hear that, Sir," he said with a smile, and whisked me out the door just in time to emerge arm-in-arm, and amble past the scandalized SS.

THE END


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